Perfectly Imperfect
by Livie
Summary: Rule1 to being a Princess: Never fall for your fathers worst enemy. Duh. Simple. And I still managed to screw up big time. I fell in love with the most outlawed bandit of all time...
1. Flowers and a Thorn

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Rule #1 to being a princess: Never fall for your father's worst enemy. Especially not if your father is the King of Grace. No, not the adjective. My father is as graceful as a suckling pig. As in Grace, the county. The Grace Isles are the richest in the world in jewels and metals.  
  
And, like every other mineral rich country, the Grace Isles have bandits.  
  
As a princess, it is your duty to disapprove vehemently against the vermin outlaws. Well, I'm not a good princess. I failed the first rule in the book of royalty. I fell for the most outlawed outlaw of them all.  
  
It's a long story, but it wasn't completely my fault...  
  
Anyway, I'm the youngest in the royal family. I've got four older sisters. Four! And they're all perfectly identical, and yes, they are quadruplets., with golden hair, pale, flawless skin and doe like innocent brown eyes. They're probably the only royal quads in the whole of the Emerald Ocean, which is not a good thing.  
  
Princess Lilly, Princess Rose, Princess Tulip and Princess Camellia. The cream of the croup...  
  
The worst thing was that they were all perfect. Beautiful, graceful and as intellectual as mules. See, perfect princess material. The deal is, with princesses, they must, or at the very least, should, be seen and not heard. It makes the King's job easier if he doesn't have to worry about rebellious daughters.  
  
Unfortunately for the King, he had a fifth daughter. Me. Princess Rhiannion, at your service. The oddball of the otherwise illustrious family, with bright red hair, freckly skin, and reddish brown eyes in contrast tot the pale maidenly faces and golden hair of the other four.  
  
I'm rebellious, pert, stubborn and annoying. And I'm smart, because I know I'm smart, which makes me sound conceited, but I am a bit conceited. See, a lot of conceited people are completely unaware that they're conceited, which really makes them more conceited.  
  
Okay, now I'm just raving. See, I told you I'm annoying.  
  
Back to the facts. I'm sixteen, and my sisters are eighteen. The problem is, with the hierarchy system of most countries, the eldest gets the throne, and with twins or triplets, or quads, the first born. But nobody knows which one of the quads was born first. So, the King is trying to figure out who will inherit the throne, with his advisors panicking.  
  
It's quite funny really, now that you think about it.  
  
The commoners were panicking as well, because they wanted a heir to the throne, and fast. Insecurity always sooner or later morphs into panic, which turns into riots, which eventually leads to action...  
  
And now, you know how I ended up meeting Rouge, the villain who stole my entire heart and soul...  
  
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A/N this is just something I did out of boredom... I might continue it, but probably not. Sort of one shot. We'll see 


	2. Tanguir Cremke

Whoa... am I updating OR WHAT? Go me! Anyways, read and review.

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I've never cared much for balls, really. Too many frills, and tucks. Also, it was the perfect opportunity for me to make a fool of myself, either by tripping over a rug, or by dancing a gavotte when it was a waltz. And it was the perfect opportunity for my sisters to show me up.  
  
This ball was turning out to be even more ridiculous than last years big occasion, when I accidentally bumped into an ambassador and knocked off his wig. I admit, it was rather embarrassing, but did he really have to leave court? The process of ageing (**balding**, I mean) is a beautiful thing.  
  
For this ball, Father had ordered a maze to be built. The dance would officially start at the centre of the maze, where there was a huge statue of the Roc, the bird of the isles, and dance partners would chance constantly with every dance, until the last song was played.  
  
Then, the last dance partner was stuck with the other until they found one of a hundred ways out. It was a creative idea but extremely impractical. It had taken months for the gardeners to build hedges as pleasantly thick and stable as the King would approve of.  
  
Also, I felt it rather suave that young, love struck insisted on choosing their partners. Obviously the soundproof hedges would offer plenty opportunity for stealing kisses. Funnily enough, it was also to be a masked ball.  
  
I wonder which zealous young man came up with the idea?  
  
The Flowers of Grace, my disturbingly perfect sisters, sat very, very still as we rode in a carriage. They looked like china dolls, with their long golden hair combed, primped and curled to an inch of their lives.  
  
All four were wearing a dress with so many tucks and lace ruffles that I thought that it was no wonder that they sat so still, afraid to move for fear of disarranging a single pleat- a puff of wind was all it needed for a bow to wrinkle.  
  
I, of course, had been born without the dull, but certainly useful ability to sit still. My dress was white, and simple, but it had a very long train, as was the fashion, and every time I wriggled, the stupid thing wrinkled, and I would have to wriggle again to straighten it.  
  
With every wriggle, four pairs of eyes followed my movements disdainfully. Tulip (if she was the one in the blue dress) sniffed as I lost one of my slippers in the process of wriggling about.  
  
Would it seem rather youthful for me to me mention that the slippers, also in the very latest fashion seemed to be missing a vital compartment- Buckles. Ah, how my heart bleeds for an sole buckle to fasten around my dainty foot!  
  
I seemed to be talking constantly in the most dashing of** italics** lately. This is one of my controversial virtues- I call it decorating a plain statement with tasteful adjectives, like icing a teacake, although the righteous call it 'lying' and 'exaggerating'.  
  
Well honestly, you've got to love yourself before you love others, don't you think?  
  
Anyway, after many lifetimes worth of snooty glances shot my way, the carriage rolled to a smoothly practised roll, and I patiently waited for the four giant mules to daintily poke their feet at the grass, as if quite afraid that if they trod down firmly, cracks would spread from the point of impact and swallow them up.  
  
Needless to say, **I **jumped out with a self-assured step.  
  
There is an unofficial, golden rule in the Isles if there ever was one ( and trust me, there are a lot more than just one)- No member of Royalty must ever cover his or her face. I stepped out into a sea of masked people- Ladies in dainty mother of pearl coverings, and lords walking about with dark fabric masks, suddenly very conscious of my red hair, which is unusual, because my self esteem is quite high for an 16 year old.  
  
I stood in my corner, hiding behind the shadow. Several times, I had to duck behind a bush to hide from an suitor, many of whom were over 4 times my own age.  
  
The gardeners really had outdone themselves- the lawn was as smooth as the desired silk, and the hedges were as neat and as tall as hedges could possible be. Not a single thorn, or twig stuck out at risk of impaling and shredding a piece of fabric of expensive fabric off a ladies dress. Small flowers- I was no botanist- had been grown amounts the leaves and I did wonder idly if the gardeners fed up with actually growing them had decided to just poke them in...  
  
The first dance started, a smooth, languid waltz, and I reluctantly stepped out from my shady area and proceeded to dance with a large number of nameless nobles, and chatted gaily about things I knew they did not understand- of the stratosphere and of the Woman Warriors in the North. Many simply smiled indulgently at the 'clever little princess.'  
  
As the last dance struck- a fast, tricky little gavotte, I turned around to resignedly face the elderly, silver haired, broad faced suitor that I had been designated to dance with- and found him to have left.  
  
In his place was a tall, black haired young man, wearing a black mask, and a black cape (as was the court fashion: I am very acquainted with court fashions, and sadly enough I am quite a self proclaimed expert) with a red velvet lining. He wore white court gloves, and dark clothes, and his eyes were so dark I could hardly tell when the blackness of the mask finished and the darkness of his eyes began.  
  
He danced rather clumsily, I noted. His steps were almost perfect- his feet flashed as per required for the dance, but there was a uncoordinated, reluctant movement in his feet that showed he was quite un used to dancing- his feet landed far too heavily on the ground, as if they were more used to duelling with strength and assurance rather than moving with the delicate movements required for dancing.  
  
Which, now that I think about it is quite true.  
  
I thought nothing of it as we began to slowly move towards the towering hedges; I thought nothing of it as his fingers, covered by that thin glove suddenly tensed under my own; thought nothing of it as his shoulders stiffened with coiled muscle- thought nothing of it until a rough hand was suddenly covering my own.  
  
He bound me up as one would wrap a parcel. Refusing to submit without an fight, I unhinged my jaw and bit down on the large hand covering my mouth, and bit down- hard.  
  
My teeth felt like they had bitten down on an iron mallet. I realised, rather stupidly, that he was wear heavy links of chain mail, cleverly disguised by that white court glove. He gagged me, after giving a low, amused chuckle in a deep voice at my antics.  
  
The music, I realised, had stopped, and there was laughter and voices chatting as partners of the last dance each entered a different entrance. None of them choose our own.  
  
The hedges of the maze covered us as I was dragged unceremoniously, struggling and wriggling for all I was worth, and occasionally banging my head against his arm to try and make whoever he was release me. I might as well have been banging my head against a brick wall in order to try and make it fall down, for all the slackening I felt in his death grip.  
  
I wondered vaguely why he just didn't knock me out- it would save him a lot of trouble in dragging me. Then again, I thought, as we came to a tiny gap in the hedge, which was obviously designed for the people to squeeze through one by one, maybe not. He pushed through with no apparent trouble, taking down half of the hedge with him.  
  
Apparently, a young masked man dragging a princess around was nothing. The now distant murmurs from behind the bushes did not raise in alarm at the scuffling sounds, nor did any pair of curious eyes peer over a hedge at us. Being dragged by a lunatic was no fun, but at least it gave me plenty of opportunity to reflect on the irony of the situation...  
  
Humour, I suppose is found in unexpected situations. I guess laughing at the worst-case scenario I was now in can only be escribed as humour. Be positive, I told myself, but failed, only coming up with the lame, only vaguely positive thought that at least the gardeners had done their work well- the hedges were assuredly soundproof.  
  
I was surprised when we finally got out of the maze (well, I suppose any length of time is quite long when being dragged about) that it did not end inside the castle grounds, rather in a cleared hill close to the grounds. I was even more surprised when I saw the two horses waiting patiently there for us- one a small, piebald mare and the other a huge chestnut.  
  
I was NOT surprised to see that the guards had left, probably for a late night of poker playing.  
  
He cut open my bounds and gag, and huffily, knowing that trying to run either in high heels or bare foot in the bindii littered grass would not work, I climbed onto the small piebald. I sighed as I realised that my slippers so insistent to fall off in the carriage ( which in comparison to the situation I was now in) seemed like a haven of comfort, had stubbornly stayed on during the hideous journey through the maze.  
  
Well, I thought tiredly, at least we now know that what the shoe maker told me was true- court shoes these days are really built to last.  
  
The horse seemed to know its own way around- it galloped quite easily and comfortably through the paths and the forest we soon came to. My attacker followed close by behind, until we suddenly halted.  
  
He dismounted confidently and rummaged around in his saddlebags. I dismounted too, shakily, aware of the fact that I had no idea of were I was. My ego being only slightly bruised I blamed it on the growing dusk that obscured vision.  
  
He turned around, and I got a good look at him then, without his mask. He could not have been called handsome than any more than I called pretty- his features too bold and solid- but there was a striking air around him nevertheless. His face- it was the face of a fighter- there was savage, defiant lines in that face, and character and pride in the strength of his jaw and the way his chin jutted. Two intense, black eyes, huge and glowing with a dark, rayless radiance stood their ground. Spikes of his short dark hair, bristly and unmanageable flopped over his forehead.  
  
In all, it was the image of a hardened criminal. But what really got me was the fact that he could not have been more than 18 or 19 years old, the very slight dark stubble on his face was soft and new, not the bristly tough whiskers of an middle aged boy, and the broadness of his shoulders that had only recently filled out.  
  
I squinted, and saw there was a tattoo on the wrist of his left hand, and gasped, seeing the pattern.  
  
XXX.  
  
It wasn't a tattoo at all. It was the symbol, burnt into flesh with an red hot poker.  
  
The symbol of the most notorious prison in all of the isles- Tanguir Cremke.  
  
Tanguir Cremke. Founded by one of my great grandparents, it was a terrible place, or so I read. A dark prison, set out on a semi island surrounded completely by dark, bubbling swampland. Only the most infamous criminals who had committed the most terrible crimes were sent there- the petty thief's simply went to gaol.  
  
Those that had murdered or tried to commit treason or tried to unsurp a noble from his position only ever went there.  
  
And there was no escape- it was covered by swampland- a haunted marsh filled with crocodiles to the north and east. To the north and south there was The Forest of the Fates- named after the inevitable fate that followed anyone who dared venture in- death.  
  
Tanguir Cremke had not been described in the history books. No body who had ever went int there behind the bars had ever come out again and told the tale. Only the handful of visitors that had come out had said that dying in there is the better part of it... Tanguir Cremke was unescapable. Only an handful of criminals had ever reached outside it's gates, and all of them except for two had perished either in the forest or swampland.  
  
The first one had died of starvation, wandering about in the desert that stretched past the swamp. His bones had been found by the guards- bleached white by the sun.  
  
And the second had escaped and lived to tell the tale. The the only man in all of history ever to escape. He went by the name Rogue and was now lived as an outlaw, robbing and plundering the countryside, leaving behind no survivors in the manors, constantly evading attempts to catch him.  
  
Rogue... Nobles Bane... I had no idea he would be so young.  
  
What did he want with me?

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A/N Ok, I've read through this chapter and I'd just like to say how lame it is. Thanks for all the reviews. I don't think I'll coninue this until the end though, it's really stupid. Do you think I should keep going?

I really don't want it to turn out like a Robin Hood.

Review....

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